The Stations of the Cross
by used romance
Summary: ON HIATUS Frodo Baggins took upon himself the Ring to save all of Middle Earth. It is his cross to bear. "You have elected the way of pain."
1. Opening

**Author's Note: **Well, this is an odd one, and I don't know how well it will be received.

The Stations of the Cross are part of Roman Catholicism, told during the Season of Lent, which is the 40-day period before Easter. I've taken parts from each station and used them as **inspiration** for this crossover fic. It's not like The Passion, featuring Frodo Baggins as Jesus Christ (though I suppose it is for this chapter). Different characters deal with the different themes in each part. Bah, you'll see. Just go with the flow, babe!

I don't mean to offend anyone, but after almost two years with this concept on my mind, I couldn't let it go.

**Warnings: **Angst, character death, slash

**The Stations of the Cross:**

**Opening Prayer**

**  
**_Jesus came with his disciples to a country place called Gethsemane, and he said to them, "Sit down here, while I go over yonder and pray." Then he took with him Peter and the two sons of Zebedee, and he began to be saddened and exceedingly troubled. He said to them, "My soul is sad, even unto death. Wait here and watch with me." He went forward a little, and falling prostrate he prayed, saying, "Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass away from me; yet not as I will but as you will." (Mt 26:36-39) _

~*~*~

Gandolf's yells were reverberating in Frodo's mind. He thought he may be able to expel the sounds through his tears, or his own anguished cries, but he sealed those away in some dark little crevice within his heart. As long as he detached himself from it in this way, he could choke back the tears and force his feet forward.

But it was so tiring keeping them contained! Never before had he been so weary -- and not just physically. His _soul_ seemed to be taking the toll for his efforts against the pain, against the dreadful power of the Ring, against any signs of just how weakened he was and that he was afraid he would fail in the end and -- and --

Aragorn noticed the look in Frodo's eyes, the grief hidden only by his drive to get to Mordor. They were barely in the shelter of the woods of Lothlórien. The mounts of Moria were still visible through the tree tops, but there would be no point in attempting to continue through the night.

The place where they arrived seemed an oasis. There was no fear, no sadness, not trace of Mordor or Sauron or any matter of strife in this place of peaceful greenery -- the Garden of Gethsemane, it was called. The trees shared the sighs of the warriors and the shuffle of the leaves were the only movements around the site.

Aragorn said aloud to the Fellowship, "Come, let us rest here." And to Boromir, Legolas, and Gimli, he said quietly, "Be vigilant. We can't allow ourselves a moment of negligence."

Despite the warning he so solemnly uttered, one by one, each of the Fellowship succumbed to sleep, until sitting against his tree, where he would be able to see the cluster of Hobbits, the Elf, and the Goblin who had already bedded down, even Aragorn's eyes fell shut. They could no longer find that reserve of strength in the midst of their sadness, but even in sleep they could find little relief, distressing images haunting their dreams.

But Frodo would not, could not sleep. And he couldn't stay near them and see them toss and make those pitiful noises when he knew they could have been his own.

He stood with the intention to leave the Garden for the solitude of the surrounding trees, but Aragorn's face twitched at the sound of the twigs beneath Frodo's feet breaking. He frowned took a careful step backwards, then another, and Aragorn didn't show any signs of awareness this time, so emboldened, Frodo took a larger ste--

A large tree root halted his progress and almost tossed him backwards, and if not for the strong, hands on his shoulders keeping him steady, he would have awoken all of the Fellowship with his fall.

He almost woke them with a startled cry before he heard the familiar deep chuckle. He turned his head and sighed with relief, allowing the Man to help him upright again.

"The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak," Boromir said with a wry smile, nodding towards those on the ground. "Come, Master Hobbit, you most of all should not walk alone at this time of night." With a small push, he led Frodo away from the rest of the Fellowship and into the darkness of the woods.

~*~*~

They had walked silently, weaving through the trees with Boromir's assurance that they wouldn't get so lost even he couldn't find a path back to the Garden. Creatures hummed in the night, and the pale moon shone through joined branches overhead, and Frodo became frustrated that as much as he walked, he couldn't reach that same state of peace as the surrounding nature.

He finally settled into a clearing and lay on his back on the soft ground, offering a small smile to the Man who sat beside him.

Frodo had spent many nights in the Shire watching the sky, during such clear, calm nights as this, but even the familiar activity couldn't smooth over his inner storm.

_Take this burden from me_, he thought desperately, shutting his eyes as the night transformed into a smothering thing, coming down on him like the ceiling of the mines. He grasped at the grass beneath his hand to remind him where he was, but it was Boromir's hand on his shoulder that tore him from his feverish imagination.

"Frodo," he called to him, leaning over him, shielding him from the sight of the nightmarish sky. "You've no reason to fear, Frodo. I'm here."

He helped the Hobbit to sit up, waited as he turned his head this was an that, gathering the necessary components to recreate his reality… and then those large eyes turned to him, ever-mournful.

"Thank you, Boromir," he whispered sincerely.

He shifted to rest his head on the Man's chest. Perhaps it was this gesture which made Boromir decide to kiss him.

He lifted up Frodo's head with one crooked finger under the round chin, delicately, hesitantly. And Frodo did not deny him, only watching him questioningly -- _trustingly_.

The first touch was gentle, like the natural meeting of two leaves gently brushing against each other in the wind. When he saw the rough lips coming towards him, Frodo's breath left him to be replaced with Boromir's. The heat spread from where their lips met throughout his body and the pain in him was utterly forgotten as tiny critters all over his body made him tremble.

And when Boromir pulled away, Frodo felt at peace again. He even allowed himself a foolish little grin.

That is, until he saw the very obvious guilt on the Man's face.

"Forgive me, Frodo," he whispered. "_Forgive me_."

Just as the Hobbit formed assurances on his tongue, Boromir grasped his hair in one hand and pressed their lips together once more, painfully, frantically this time, and suddenly he felt Boromir clutching at his neckline with his other hand, clutching for --

~*~*~

_The Ring._

Boromir knew that with ever passing day, they were getting closer to Mordor, and his chance to take hold of the Ring, salvation for Gondor… that chance was fading.

So when he snuck away after the rest of the Fellowship had settled in the Garden, it must have been an act of Fate that led him to find the three ignorant Orcs in the outlying woods.

They sought a Hobbit.

They knew nothing of the Ring in his possession.

How could Boromir have come across such a perfect opportunity if not by some divine intervention?

Aragorn could keep his self-righteousness. Boromir had to keep his people safe.

~*~*~

No!

Frodo's screams were swallowed, his sobs ignored, and when his pleas to be released were answered, it was only by the arrow embedded in Boromir's shoulder. The hand groping for the Ring moved to the wound and Frodo tucked the Ring away, scrambling backwards from the traitor…

… and right into the hands of an Orc.

"Gotcha, little Hobbit." it breathed rank breath in Frodo's face before tying a rag around his head over his eyes.

He heard the twangs of the bows and heard the Man's grunts of pain, a single anguished cry -- and silence. Then there was a muted thump, and a sneer from one of the Orcs before a second pair of hands were on the Hobbit.

Frodo didn't need to see Boromir to know the Man had died.

He cried out for Aragorn, for Legolas, anyone who could possibly hear from whatever distance he was from the camp until one of the Orcs gagged him.

He didn't need the blackness enveloping his conscience to know that all hope was lost.

~*~*~

**AN: **I would love a _Lord of the Rings_ fan who is more particular than I with the details to point out my mistaktes. I know theire are some timeline inconsistencies. (Saruman ordered the search for the Hobbit while they were in Galadriel's care or after they left Lothlorien, not before then. I ignrored that.)

Also, anyone up for being my beta, even if just for a chapter? I'd really love that.

_I. M. Sinclair _

_1:46 a.m._

_April 3, 2010_


	2. First Station

**Author's Note: **I'm a little worried about the lack of reviews, though the story alerts made me happy, so thank you, guys. (Insert goofy grin.) If there are things that need improving, don't be afraid to mention them! I can handle harsh critiques.

**Warnings: **This chapter is pretty tame… Angst, very vague pre-slash,

**The Stations of the Cross:**

**First Station**

_The kings of the earth rise up and the princes conspire together against the Lord and against his Anointed. I will proclaim the decree of the Lord; the Lord said to me: "You are my Son; this day I have begotten you. Ask of me and I will give you the nations for an inheritance and the ends of the earth for your possession." (Ps 2:2, 7-8)_

~*~*~

Frodo felt the warmth before he could see the source. It was the heat of a midday sun, a blanket of light in the form of arms holding him to a trim torso.

He stirred out of the half-consciousness and immediately began to struggle and one of his hand tried to reach the ring he felt under the mithril, pressed to his chest by one of the large tanned arms.

"_Enough_," he heard from a male voice, one that decidedly did not belong to an Orc, behind him. "Please, I mean you no harm."

Like a frightened animal, he stopped his frantic efforts and trembled in the Man's grasp, is breaths becoming heavier, chest heaving against the restraints.

"Release me," he pleaded softly. Now instead of the sky collapsing on him, he felt as if the arms would crush him. They certainly felt strong enough to. "If you indeed mean me no harm, you must release me." He shut his eyes and imagined the Shire, with its open fields and long blades of grass tickling at his ankles and scent of wild flowers.

He was startled when the person removed his arms and the fantasy-Shire darkened back into the woods lying somewhere between his home and what he believed would be his final resting place. He turned to see who his captor was -- and met the green that he chose for his mental sanctuary. It made him stop for only a moment, but when he remembered himself, he scrambled to his feet.

Before he managed to find his footing and turn, the stranger held out his hand and cried, "Wait!"

And the power that when out of him with that gesture made Frodo stagger and fall back to the ground. He gasped and pushed himself back with the heels of his hands but couldn't find the strength to stand again.

"Wha- What are you?"

Surprise, hurt, then resolution bloomed on the Man's face. He moved forward again, and something about that look on his face made Frodo gasp and try to turn -- but still his legs wouldn't cooperate, and he tried crawling on his forearms and knees, only for his entire front to be pressed into the ground by the stranger's body.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into Frodo's dark hair before, for the second time that night, he lost himself to darkness.

~*~*~

When Frodo woke again, the Man was sitting across from him with his arms cross and legs out in front of him, tearing a blade of grass to bits with his bottom lip between his teeth and a gaze that saw nothing. For the first time, Frodo studied the Man: he didn't look as imposing as Aragorn or Bor-- or any other Man he had seen. His frame was wiry, but clothed in the dark material, and with that expression on his face and his tense demeanor, he looked like a snake preparing to strike. He had only glimpsed the scar on his head under the wisps of dark hair covering it when he notice Frodo had wakened.

His hands rested on his lap and he offered a smile. "Are you alright now?" he asked gently.

Frodo pressed his lips together and nodded.

"I'm sorry for frightening you. I forgot that my magic affects Hobbits more than Men," he added sheepishly.

The Hobbit debated whether he was too scared to be curious, but decided that he hadn't been hurt yet, so it must be safe to ask:

"So you're a Wizard, then?" He didn't allow himself to think on the image the word had brought up.

The stranger looked immensely pleased that Frodo was attempting conversation. "No," he chuckled and shook his head, "I mean, I do have magic… but I don't use a staff, I don't look like any other Wizards, and I don't use their spells… But as you can tell, I am no Man. The Valar sent me here." At that proclamation, the smile on his face changed from slightly hesitant to bitter.

"I am destined to conquer Sauron."

Frodo unconsciously brought a hand up to the chain upon which the Ring hung.

"But I have -- " He stopped himself, unsure whether to allow such information to him, but he nodded, apparently already privy to the weapon.

"Yes, and you play but a part in his ultimate destruction. Years ago, he anointed me as the one with the power to vanquish him," he spat, "He condemned me to a life as a murderer or death by his hand."

Frodo swallowed and tried to understand what the stranger was trying to share with him. He weaved his fingers through the grass under him and tugged at the blades pensively. Through all the tales he had heard of Sauron, all the things told to him, he had never heard of one such as this stranger -- Then he realized he hadn't learned his name.

"But… who are you?"

The stranger's brow creased as if he didn't know the answer himself. "Who do you think I am?"

"… I don't know for sure just yet…" He started hesitantly, and at the crestfallen gaze he received, he blurted, "But I know _what_ you will be."

"Oh? And what's that?"

"A hero."

He frowned and shook his head slightly at the notion. "You say so."

"And after what you've said yourself, you doubt that?" Frodo argued, moving to his knees and leaning closer to the stranger.

"I… You don't know the full story. You don't know what shame has kept me from the books of history and legend," he tried to explain, his face twisting with the memory and experience that Frodo had yet to learn of.

The Hobbit put a hand on his. "Then tell me."

He grasped the small hand and studied it for a moment, until Frodo thought he had dismissed the request, but was relieved when he started, "When I was a child, Sauron tried to kill me… and he failed. But before his Fall, he came to me… "

~*~*~

_I. M. Sinclair _

_10:25 a.m._

_April 5, 2010_


	3. Second Station

**Author's Note: **I can't really make any excuses for how long this took me to write. Perhaps it was the fact that I felt the need to stuff a whole crapload of Harry into this chapter. But since there was a LoTR marathon recently, I knew this had to be finished pronto. I am thoroughly ashamed of how long this took.

**Warnings: **Angst, character death

**The Stations of the Cross:**

**Second Station**

_Who would believe what we have heard? To whom has the arm of the Lord been revealed? He grew up like a sapling before him, like a shoot from the parched earth; there was in him no stately bearing to make us look at him, no appearance that would attract us to him. He was rejected and avoided by Men, a man of suffering, accustomed to infirmity, one of those from whom Men turn away, and we held him in no esteem. (Is 53:1-3)_

Addramyr and Lirarwen of Gondor were the last people you would expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious. The couple had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They did not think they could bear it if anyone found out about their son, Harandir.

They thought they were quite fortunate to have such a beautiful child, blessed with the green eyes and warm spirit of his mother, but he had his father's disarrayed dark hair growing on his head. When he was born, only the families of his parents knew of him. Lirarwen was hoping to show him to her few friends living in the settlement, but she and Addramyr discovered they could not allow him to be seen by anyone else. The first time Harandir started to cry from hunger, Addramry had barely reached his cradle before the boy disappeared from his sight and reappeared in Lirarwen's arms. They knew what this was - however impossible it seemed, however they wanted to believe otherwise.

They loved their son, and they feared what might happen if anyone was to discover his strange… _gift_. As he grew older, they saw the gift grow. He made things move without having to touch them. He controlled animals with just his thoughts. He healed small wounds in the blink of an eye. Harandir had never caused harm with his gift, but Addramyr knew that the slightest display of the unnatural power to anyone would cause panic. In their fear, people would act rashly and want to harm their boy. He and Lirarwen could not allow that.

As they extracted the promise for his discreetness daily, they never thought the power was not unnatural at all; they could never imagine that the gift was from the Valar - that their son himself was sent by the Valar.

But there was someone who did know.

Sauron stole into the humble settlement just outside of Osgiliath on a calm, cool night, when the frost of winter had melted and people were waiting for the first blooms of spring. Lirarwen was putting Harandir, already five years old, to rest when she heard the subtle noise coming from outside. It became more menacing before Addramyr made it to the door.

Lirarwen and Harandir both noticed the way he froze and his eyes widened, but and boy was old enough to understand the look of fear on his father's face.

Juts as the boy opened his mouth to question his father, Addramyr signaled for him to stay silent.

"Take Harandir and go."

He had just managed the cautious whisper to his wife when the door crashed open, the flying splinters causing Addramyr to raise an arm over his eyes.

He did not see the face of his attacker before he was killed.

Lirarwen could not spare the breath to scream or sob. She pressed Harandir behind her and turned to face the stranger, shielding her small son with her body.

"What do you want? We have nothing of value here!" It was only a whispered plea, but it was all she had the strength for.

"Give me the boy."

The sound of the cold voice made Harandir cling tighter to his mother; he felt her shudder faintly. The cloaked stranger loomed over the petite form of Lirarwen, and even so, she held her ground firmly.

"I know what he is," the voice continued, and the stranger took another step. "I know what you have been hiding."

"What do you want with him? He has done nothing wrong!" She begged to be left in peace, but the stranger moved closer yet.

"Give me the boy," he repeated, "And I may spare you."

That was the first time Harandir looked at his father's body - only to find that there was no blood staining his clothes. There was no mark at all that he was hurt. That could only mean the stranger had the same gift as Harandir! He had to try to tell her this somehow - he tried to tug her hand to get her to look at the body, but she only grabbed his hand and held it tightly.

"No," she ground out. "You will not harm my son."

Harandir was so used to not being allowed to use his gift, he didn't realize his mother was trying to give her own signal to him to get him to attack this stranger.

She was still tugging his hand when she fell face first into the hard ground.

The boy stared down at his mother in shock. He had seen death through the small animals he had wanted to keep as pets; he knew this was a sleep his parents would not wake from. Even so, he looked up at the frightening man who stood between him and his father's body, prepared to beg him to bring them back, when he felt powerful magic coming from the stranger and wrapping around him as if to choke the life out of him, as well.

But…

"_You will not harm my son."_

… Just as Harandir felt the bone-chilling magic fully encase him, it drew away from him and went back to the stranger.

He snarled and recoiled like a startled beast. At the sound of his anger, Harandir felt a pain on his forehead and felt his blood seeping from a wound. Before Harandir could recover himself and use his own gift, the stranger disappeared into the darkness like the shadow of a man.

It wasn't very long before neighbors found Harandir kneeling between the bodies of his parents, mindless of the blood on his face and the shocked cries around him.

Not one of the many who walked into the house the following day suspected Dark magic. They saw the blood from Harandir's forehead and assumed it was made by a physical weapon. As for the deaths of his parents, they all knew it was unnatural, of course, but what need was there to stir panic when they were the only two killed rather the entire village. Surely the two invoked the wrath of someone vengeful, someone who knew hoe to poison them craftily.

Harandir was simply passed on to the family of Addramyr.

They barely had time to get the boy settled in before they, too, were killed swiftly and silently. Harandir was asleep in his room for the first time in days when it happened, and he waked just as the attacker left. Again, he felt the pain of the mark on his forehead, though not as intensely - as if only the proximity of the attacker could stir the pain.

People believed him to be a cursed child and feared him for it. Never had death followed around anyone this way. Why should they risk their lives to care for him? They shut him out of their homes. And as long as no one took him in, it seemed, the plague of death ceased. He was small for his age, pale and sickly-looking. Perhaps he would die and their worries would end, they all supposed. His fate was no concern of theirs.

In the beginning, he saw this as freedom thrust upon him, simply freedom he could not trade for the comfort of a home and a family. He was able to steal food and clothes, find woods in which to live and find clean water for years. He slept under the open skies, a sight he was mainly deprived of by his parents.

But every winter, he found himself more bitter than the last. He existed just at the edge of Gondor, circling it and watching the settlements and cities grow and change like any other beast. Every winter, he tried to get closer to the warmth of civilization only to be burned and turned away by those who knew too well who he was. Every winter, he hoped he would die from the cold, only to survive through it and see the mocking colorful flowers bloom to mark the anniversary of the day he was marked for despair.

After the fifth winter ended, everything changed for him.

Around that time, he was near Minas Ithil. He had learned not to enter the cities for fear of recognition and, therefore, persecution, and from his place hidden in the trees he saw the fall of the city. And though he believed himself to be unseen by those in the city, someone found him.

Night had fallen when he saw that there was someone walking towards his tree. He dared not move, he barely breathed - but the man below seemed to sense him without sight or sound and called for him.

"Harandir."

The low, commanding voice held a power he was familiar with, power like his own. He did not realize it was the power which cursed him, the power he felt those years ago. But he allowed it to lead him down from the branches, to land softly before the tall, dark-haired man with the strange red eyes.

"Not Harandir. Just Harry," he corrected quietly. He rarely conversed with anyone who could respond, but the man just raised an eyebrow - not in annoyance or interest at what he said. The man only stared at him, and Harry fidgeted under his gaze, not used to being studied so.

Finally, the man bowed at the waist and held Harry's chin in his hands so their faces were close together.

_You know who I am. _The man spoke to him without moving his lips.

Harry was going to deny it, but suddenly the information was in his mind.

_Sauron._

Even as he heard the name in his head, he knew it was coming from _him_. He had head the name for years, always with the inflection of fear, just as his name was so rarely uttered. But this was the only person to ever treat him with a sense of distinction rather than revulsion. He recognized the severity in the gaze, the way he commanded Harry's attention, the firm hold on his chin. Harry was somehow important to him, the Dark Lord, and what a wondrous sensation it was within his breast to realize this!

So it was not with fear Harry would speak the name like those who had rejected him, only reverence.

_Sauron._

The Dark Lord must have been following each of Harry's haphazard thoughts, because his thin lips spread into a small, pleased smile. He stood up straight and held out a gloved, long-fingered hand.

_Come with me, Harry. _

And knowing who this was, knowing what he had done, Harry accepted it.

_My Lord._

**AN: **I translated the names James and Lily, following the example of other LoTR fics. Also, some of the first few lines are edited from the first pages of _Sorcerer's Stone_. Harry's background has been split into two chapters, and in the next chapter, I may add a time of the relevant dates towards the end of the Second Age.

_I. M. Sinclair_

_12:27 a.m._

_August 17, 2010_


	4. Third Station, Part One

**Author's Note: **Part of the reason the last chapter was so difficult for me was my interest in _this_ part, Harry's time with Sauron. So finally, here it is! Also, since it's a hella long chapter, I'll re-post it later with proper editing.

**Warnings: **Angst, barely-there slash

**The Stations of the Cross:**

**Third Station, Part One**

_If the world hates you, know that it has hated me before you. If you were of the world, the world would love what is its own. Because you are not of the world, but I have chosen you out of the world, therefore the world hates you. Remember the word that I have spoken to you: No servant is greater than his Master. If they have persecuted me, they will persecute you also. (J 15:18-20) _

Harry entered Mordor riding with Sauron after his conquest of Minas Ithil.

No one dared question his presence, not when Sauron shed his cloak for Harry to wear, and the boy was allowed to cling to him as they walked to the tower. Rather, all bowed as Sauron and Harry passed them by, Sauron giving them no acknowledgment, and Harry glancing at them with trepidation. He had never seen such creatures before, with constant sneers on their faces, evil gleams in their eyes. He had no time to wonder about them, yet he was unsure his questions would be entirely welcome. He didn't believe he would be kept prisoner, but what did this fearsome man want from him?

_You think too much for one so young. Trust in me, Harry._

Harry reddened and kept his gaze respectfully lowered.

Sauron stopped when they entered the awe-inspiring tower. He turned Harry to face him, and lifted the boy's head with his gloved hand again.

"You are no prisoner in this place," he said aloud, allowing those around to hear in his low, resounding voice. "I will take care of you, child. Those fools in Gondor will rue the day they turned you out of their homes, I will make sure of it."

There was no appropriate response Harry could think of. He opened and closed his mouth, but his heart seemed lodged in his throat. Was this some dream of his, something created by his bitter imagination?

He was still in such a daze when Sauron led him up a set of stairs, winding along the wall which blocked Harry from the sight and sound of things he would not learn of until much later in his life. Together, they entered a large set of chambers, which was soon revealed to be Harry's own. At Sauron's command, Harry undressed himself; he dared not complain when this was what his saviour wished of him. He was directed to the already-drawn bath, which was as large as the ponds he washed in when he was in the forest. He washed himself slowly, savoring the feel of the warm water and the scent of soaps which were even better than the smell of the forest flowers. He tried not to think much on the fact that he had been under this powerful man's scrutiny since they left Gondor. Why did he choose to save Harry?

_Because you and I are alike in many ways, child. Am I not hated and feared as you are? You will no longer suffer because of those foolish Men; you and I will conquer them. You will be my pupil, and when you are of age, my equal in ruling all of Middle Earth._

Despite those words, Harry never did take part in any of Sauron's victories, or defeats. Though he was never treated as such, he was indeed kept as a prized prisoner in the tower, always accessible to Sauron, never out of his sight. The reason for this was for the same reason Sauron had killed his parents all those years ago, though he would not learn this until later in his life.

Harry realized it was Sauron who visited his home those years ago when he felt the connection of the scar throughout his days in the Dark Lord's proximity. Sauron wasted no time in filling Harry's rooms with texts in a variety of languages spanning centuries of history. When he learned could already read some Common Tongue, he graced Harry with a small smile before swiftly moving on to a higher level of text. The true sense of satisfaction was not a physical expression in that sense - instead, it was the invisible sensation of the warmth of a finger on his scar, stroking him lightly once before disappearing. This gave him only an inkling of their true connection.

It was the unforgettable, searing pain which led him to that ultimate realization.

During the first few weeks of his confinement, Harry went out of his way to please Sauron in any way possible, to study the more difficult texts with particular fervor, to throw in a small quip in their daily lessons. As time progressed, their connection, which Harry still did not tell his Lord of, grew so Harry felt him even beyond his rooms. He didn't mind that at all, until the day there came news of a failed attack on a city north of Gondor.

He was just sitting in his rooms (as always) with a tome on his lap, awaiting his Lord, when suddenly it was as if his scar was made of the lava from the Mount beyond the tower. There was blood welling from the scar, and he covered it with one hand before it fell onto the old pages of the tome, which he carefully removed with his free hand, placing it on the desk beside him. He felt blood and the heat of the scar on his hand, so he quickly pressed his sleeve to it. His Lord was drawing nearer; he began to rummage around for a long-sleeved tunic to change into, intending to hide this stained one from sight. He only just had time to put on the tunic when Sauron entered the room, his power almost palpable in his now quite fury - but the blood-stained one was still in his hands.

Harry clutched it to his chest, desperately panicking even as his Lord walked towards him with his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

_What is that in your hand?_

His long fingers extended to tear the piece of clothing from Harry -

- and suddenly all Harry felt was a fiery heat. The pain, which emanated from the very same scar which the Dark Lord had inflicted, was even worse than when he was angry. Harry felt blood trickling from the wound, and he had not yet noticed the reddened flesh on his Lord where their skin met. He didn't have time to, before Sauron backhanded him.

"You dare to try to harm me, you fool?" he sneered. "You forget yourself. I am your Master."

"It wasn't me!" Harry tried to plead with his Lord. "I don't know how it happened -"

"Then how do you explain this?"

He couldn't at first. He racked his mind for some explanation for this. He had rarely used his power in Sauron's presence, and he certainly had no conscious wish to do such a thing. Then he remembered a phrase uttered long ago to his Lord -_"You will not harm my son."_

At that very same moment, Sauron's blazing eyes, boring into his, widened is surprise before narrowing in suspicion.

_How long have you known?_

Unwillingly, Harry revealed all that he had tried to conceal - of the things he felt through his scar, of the moments of pain and pleasure he had received, of what he had done to take advantage of that connection.

"Does it matter, my Lord?" he asked quietly by the end of the probe. "They mean nothing to me. I only wish to please _you_."

And, oh yes, there it was, that wave of contentment. Harry closed his eyes, basking in that short moment of knowing he was right to say such a thing. It eclipsed his guilt over the fact that he had been quite honest in his words, and the parents he once loved were but memories of a family he would never choose over his Lord.

He opened his eyes at the low chuckle he heard just before him.

Sauron lifted the garment closer to his face to note the stain was indeed his charges' blood. His thumb passed over it lightly, without effect. Slowly, he brought up the blood-covered digit to his mouth, flicking out his tongue for a quick taste.

Harry stared up at him with questions in his eyes but not a word of them on his lips. Whatever came of this curious examination would be revealed to him when his Master pleased.

_Bring me the glass from your night table._

Harry did so without hesitation, not looking back to see that Sauron had slipped a blade into his hand.

_Hold the cup beneath your hand._

When he turned to Sauron again, he repressed the tremor of fear a the sight of the blade. It was not his place to question his Master's intent or to deny him anything. He extended his arm, held the cup beneath his hand as he was directed. Sauron came closer to him, gripping his hand with the tunic and slicing open his palm with a quick, precise motion. At that, Harry let out a gasp - but did not draw away. Never had his Lord used any sort of weapon on him. But Harry stared at his wound, transfixed at the blood dripping into the clear glass. When Sauron deemed that there was an appropriate amount in the cup, he covered the wound with the tunic. Harry obediently pressed against it, staving off further bleeding, even as he healed himself unconsciously, but he continued to stare at the glass now in his Lord's long-fingered hand.

Sauron lifted it to his lips and slowly imbibed the warm, precious fluid. Harry couldn't look away from the reddened lip, the pink tongue which darted out to take those last drops.

His fiery red eyes locked on Harry's once more. He held his hand out to the boy.

_Come to me, child._

He wanted to argue, wanted to pull away from that hand which was still red from the last time they touched, but he took that step towards his Master, not willing to disobey.

And Sauron grabbed his hand, and there was no terrible burning where they touched, only warmth.

From that day on, every seven days, Harry bled for his Lord, watched his Lord feast on the small cup of blood. Never again did his Lord strike him, and never again did Harry's power, meager in comparison do the Dark One, bring harm to him.

For ten years, Harry stayed willingly locked within the tower. He grew into the young man his Lord expected him to be, physically as well as mentally. He read what his Lord wished him to, kept his appearance as his Lord desired. One year, on the anniversary of Sauron's victory in Minas Ithil, the day he and Harry came together, the Dark Lord tried to mark the boy again. It wasn't like the scar, the inadvertent mark he left, no, but a clear message to those few who saw Harry - a message of his status, below his Lord but above all else. Harry wanted it more than anything, a proper brand especially for him, because if that accidental scar caused him so much pleasure, who knew what the brand could do for him? Yet, for once, he cursed him magic which, against his will, healed the skin his Lord had marked.

During the tenth year, Harry learned of the Ring.

He had long watched his Lord's comings and goings. He saw the fearsome creature those fools outside of Mordor fought against and feared so, and he saw that creature change into the beautiful, powerful man who took him from the forest. Harry's powers grew over the years, under his Lord's approving eye, but he never learned to shape shift with such ease.

"Why have I never learned this skill, my Lord?" Harry asked one evening after watching Sauron change for the hundredth time. "I have mastered almost every other skill you thought would challenge me."

Sauron smirked and caught Harry's chin between his fingers. "You impudent boy," he chuckled. "It is beyond your magic." At Harry's disappointed expression, he laughed again and held his hand up. "You have never questioned why I always wear this ring."

"It is not my place to do so," he said simply, but stared at the band which glowed in the firelight almost hypnotically, knowing his Lord would satisfy his curiosity.

"I owe many of my victories to this. My powers are bound to it, and in turn, it has increased my strength a hundred-fold."

It was a testament not to Sauron's trust in Harry, but his certainty of his power over the boy that he revealed so much. Harry didn't understand the magnitude of the divulgence, not until that very night, after his Lord had left his quarters.

He dreamt of the Ring. He dreamt of his Lord - of his Lord's _demise_. In the dream, he saw that without the Ring, his Lord would not survive.

And when he woke, Harry knew implicitly, undoubtedly what he was born to do, what his fate was, having been marked by Sauron, spurned by Men, found by his Lord. The Valar showed him through the dream what his purpose was, had always been.

And he would have none of it. He would never try to harm his Lord, who had given him so much, who showed him compassion where Men showed him their backs. Harry knew the Ring held his Lord's power, his life. But he was still young, still foolish and selfish. Why should he destroy the one being who accepted him?

But when they began their weekly ritual a few days later, Harry didn't heal from the usual cut. Nothing changed, not the knife they used, not the depth of the cut… the only thing which changed was Harry.

"Why is the cut not healing?" Sauron demanded after drinking the blood. They no longer used anything to stave the bleeding because after a few years, Harry healed quickly enough. Now blood was dripping down his arm, onto the floor, into his clothing. Harry's heart beat quickly in his chest, not used to seeing so much blood on his person. Sauron grabbed Harry's hand and pressed his thumb over the wound, sealing it with what felt like fire.

He dared not cry out. He dared not pull his hand away as his Lord scrutinized him. He dared not look into his Lord's eyes, not when he suddenly remembered the dream he had night after night since he learned of the ring.

And Sauron, unwilling to sacrifice the pleasure of his young ward, fed his blood to the boy from that day on. Knowing that the boy could no longer heal himself, he tried to mark him again - and succeeded. And though the scar would hurt like a heated rod, the mark was never warmer than the grasp of a hand on him when his Master-

But Harry could only go as far as telling Frodo of the mark, that Harry was branded. He couldn't admit how he would purr to Harry sometimes, "Let me see it," and how he would roll back his sleeve and do his best not to shudder in pleasure when his Lord pressed his tongue to it.

He pressed his hand to the ghost of the mark, trying to repress the memory.

"Is it still there?" Frodo asked, noting the gesture. "Does it hurt?"

Harry pushed his sleeve up carefully and extended his arm to Frodo. "You can see it there, though faintly. You can still feel his dark power."

Unconsciously, Frodo reached out his hand and pressed his fingers to the place where the shadow of the mark still rested. It was the same fiery heat of the ring, the same terrifying power.

"Where were you when he fell?"

"Still in the tower. I was only a threat to him without that sense of loyalty I had for him. And I amused him enough that he had no desire to dispose of me in the fight.

"It was possibly the most important moment of my life. I was freed from him, and freed from the fate assigned to me by the Valar - or so I believed. I was in my quarters, resting, awaiting his return, when suddenly I felt a cold unlike any I had ever known. No winter I had spent in the forest in my youth could compare with that bitter chill which seemed to start from within myself.

"Yet in that cold, I sensed the warmth of my Lord, and he beckoned to him. I tried to stand, to go to him, from wherever he called for me, but all strength left me, as it left him when Isildur did what I could not. His last bit of power made the tower crumble, and I barely made it out alive. Sometimes, I wished I hadn't. I wished I perished with him. I searched everywhere for a sign of the Ring… I… wanted to restore him," he confessed quietly.

"And now I… it's just… there are some things I don't understand. Sauron and I, as much as either of us may want to deny it, our souls are intertwined. I felt it so clearly when he Fell. I felt it through the scar, through his mark, within my very core.

"So I can't help but wonder… will my life be sacrificed to save Middle Earth?"

"Is that why you've told me all this?" Frodo asked carefully. "Because you believe you will die?"

"Yes… I suppose that is it after all. Someone must know. Their shame of rejecting a child of Man in such a way has kept my existence a secret. In a way, I don't really exist - as far as anyone knows, I died before Sauron attacked Gondor all those years ago.

"I can't help but be bitter at the fact that I am so hated by them, and it is in my hands that their fates rest."

"At least if you never had the love of all those you must save, know that you have mine," Frodo promised, his words racing away from his lips.

Harry's eyes lit up for the first time since he began his tale. He reached his hand out to the Hobbit, and Frodo could feel just the barest hint of Harry's magic touching him again.

"Let's get something to eat, shall we? We'll be quite busy tomorrow."


	5. Third Station, Part Two

**Author's Note: **I've been way distracted lately. Thanks for sticking around.

**Warnings: **violence

**The Stations of the Cross:**

**Third Station, Part Two **

_Why are your clothes red, and your garments like those of the wine presses? _

_"The wine press I have trodden alone, and of my people there was no one with me. I trod them in my anger, and trampled them down in my wrath; their blood spurted on my garments and I stained all my clothes. I looked about, but there was no one to help, I was appalled that there was no one to lend support; so my own arm brought about the victory." (Is 63:2-5)_

"I am not perfect, and nor are you, but _he _is. He is perfectly malicious, unfailingly cruel. You would do well to start to learn to fight with the intent to kill, and not simply to survive."

These were the words Harry had spoken to Frodo when they had rested after Harry's long tale. He tried to teach Frdo to fight, to defend himself against multiple enemies and to deal fatal blows. And now, days later, Harry had finally lost his patience with the Hobbit.

"Do you understand that when you're fighting the Orcs, they will not give you a moment to recover if you've lost your footing? That there will be no friends by your side at your direst moment to protect you?"

"You can't expect me to learn to wield a weapon so well within the span of a few days," Frodo insisted, panicked as he was at the images Harry put into his mind, reminders of the Orcs closing around him, hearing the man he had thought his friend fall -

"BUT YOU MUST!" Harry roared, "Parry the blows, attack at the slightest sign of weakness, never hesitate - you haven't the luxury to make mistakes in the midst of battle! If they gain even the slightest advantage over you, they will kill you, and _He will win_."

He had stormed off after this outburst, leaving Frodo at the campsite. Frodo had leaned early on that Harry was nothing like Aragorn. His temper flared quickly and he didn't hesitate to leave Frodo alone, whether it was to find food or, as in times like these, in a rage. Of course, Frodo knew not that when he stormed away, it wasn't a petty, selfish gesture. During one of their first few days together, Frodo had tried to follow, uncertain of whether Harry would return. That is, he had followed until he saw the trail of destruction - fire, fallen trees, beheaded Orcs, and the unmistakable figure of Harry ahead, beating the corpse of an Orc even as another bush beside him crackled suddenly in the magical flame.

He never tried following Harry after that, but Harry always came back before nightfall.

Except for tonight. Frodo didn't dare rest while he knew Harry was away. He knew Harry could fend for himself just fine, but that wasn't what had Frodo worried. He felt that as long as Harry was around, no harm could come to him. That's how it always seemed, at least. Perhaps it was the sense of power he felt coming from Harry, foreign yet entirely familiar, comforting him, keeping the nightmare at bay, allowing him to think back on the old wizard without a constant pang in his chest. So he knew that, even if he tried, he wouldn't get rest.

He sat with his back to a tree, facing the only opening in the trees to their camp. His hand gripped the hilt of his blade, ears straining to hear the sound of footfalls, irregular rustling in the leaves - any telltale signs of an enemy. All the while he knew that wouldn't be enough, that his ears were not as Aragorn's or Legolas', and that Hobbits weren't the only ones who could move without making a sound if they do desired.

So he waited, and wondered if Death would happen upon him this night.

He drifted and had difficulty pulling himself from the dark of sleep. He clutched to the grass under his hand as if it was the very brink of reality, until finally, the murmurs of Orcs jarred him into complete wakefulness. The sun had just started its mount into the sky. Breathing deeply to quiet his fiercely beating heart, Frodo pushed himself up from the ground slowly, unsheathing his blade as he did so.

There were not one or two Orcs, no, there were six of the foul creatures walking into the clearing Frodo had kept watch over for the entire night. As soon as they caught sight of the little, armed Hobbit, they gave a moment's pause.

Then, quite suddenly, their swords were in their hands, and they started towards him in unison.

Soon, the gentle silence of the dawn was filled with the stomping of heavy boots, the sharp note of blades flying in the air, the wet sound of bodies being pierced, and the thump of finality of the defeated.

Frodo only heard their groans and saw the light of their eyes being to fade as he took down one Orc after the next. He would not let them take him again - because if Harry was gone - if he truly had no one left -

Finally, he allowed himself a moment to breath when he counted the six bodies scattered around the clearing. He saw one of the Orcs on the ground twitch; he drove his blade through its throat, and to be sure, he went to each one, giving them the same treatment.

And what was he to do now? A small part of him told him he had to find Harry… Hadn't the man saved him? But what tools did Frodo have at his disposal? No… perhaps these Orcs stumbled across him by chance, but there was sure to be more roaming these parts. He had to run, he had to -

"Frodo?"

The Hobbit spun to face the source of the voice, his arm already extended so the blade reached Harry's chin - because, yes, it was Harry!

He dropped the weapon aside and ran into Harry, wrapping his arms around him and burying his face in the dark tunic.

"I was afraid you'd - They - they just came - I don't know how -"

Though he knew it was a daily possibility, he couldn't bring himself to face the idea that he could have lost the one person who truly understood his burden, the one person who he could trust implicitly because their ultimate desire was the same - to _end_ the Dark One, to be rid of the accursed Ring.

"Frodo, listen to me," Harry gently extracted Frodo's arms, held his small face in his coarse hands. "I led them here, Frodo."

His heart, which warmed at the sight of the familiar green eyes, iced over. He dove to the ground, grasped the hilt of his blade, and reared his arm back, ready to watch it disappear into the same body he had just held so tightly. The sun was no longer a beautiful beacon in the sky, but a brash light exposing the ugly truth of the matter.

But he couldn't bring himself to do it.

"… You?" he croaked blankly.

He couldn't trust even this man, who knew Frodo even deeper than any of his kin.

"You're learning," he said gently. "I did this not against you, but for you… Do you see what you are capable of, Frodo?"

He turned his back on Harry looking at the wreckage of the camp, seeing what he had done for the first time. The bloodied blade was still in his hand. When did this happen? Frodo threw the blade away from his person, and Harry came behind him and put his hands on the thin, shaking shoulders.

Oh, yes, he saw… And his own ferocity, this ability to kill, it frightened him more than the thought of dying.


End file.
